


when the walls come down (you'll know i'm here to stay)

by paradis



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Businessman Stiles, M/M, Werewolves still, bottom!Derek, hooker!Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 14:33:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradis/pseuds/paradis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not the ideal life, not the life he dreamt about aloud to his parents – he’s no Dodgers pitcher, he’s no lawyer, he’s no doctor – but it pays the bills and it keeps Laura from directing her judging, angry gaze at him too much.</p><p>It’s what he deserves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when the walls come down (you'll know i'm here to stay)

**Author's Note:**

> So this happened. 
> 
> I can honestly say I just wanted hooker!Derek and I asked on tumblr and everyone was like, 'eh it's not really a thing,' and i really wanted to not write it but then I did want to write it, so I wrote it. 
> 
> And my beautiful beta MirajaneScarlet encouraged me, as did a few of my followers, so I wrote it. 
> 
> After discussing this long and hard with my beta, I gave Laura a different role than most people give her. I guess it's pretty much headcanon for all of the Teen Wolf fandom that Laura is an awesome BAMF with a lot of attitude, but I decided to try a different route here. 
> 
> Title is take from Lifehouse's 'Between the Raindrops' 
> 
> Triggers for prostitution and some angst, I supposed.

It’s raining. 

The streets are empty, and the cars that pass by splash water up against the sidewalks and the legs of Derek’s jeans, his boots. Water soaks through to his socks, making Derek realize there are holes in his boots. He’s in a ragged, holey red sweatshirt, hood up, hands shoved into his pockets. 

He’s not cold, but he is miserable. 

He’s used to the street corners being busy, two or more people jostling for the same space, sometimes arguments breaking out over who gets to claim which spot. Derek is almost always in the same spot, and no one bothers him, because everyone is intimidated by him. Derek likes it that way. He tries to make himself seem smaller by buying bigger clothes and hiding in them, but he knows his bulk is usually still pretty visible, and that it makes the other whores nervous. It makes some johns nervous too, sometimes, and they’ll end up running to another guy or girl. But there are some johns who get off on the power trip – on paying Derek, _forcing_ him to his knees to suck them off. Derek hates these johns most. They think he’s powerless in this position, but they don’t know him; they don’t know that one wrong move from them could have him fighting, biting down, causing them to bleed out, lose some very vital parts. All they have to do is make the wrong threats. 

Derek is stronger than any john or whore, but he tries to hide it because he needs to. 

+

The insurance money ran out a long time ago. Everyone says there should’ve been more – _eleven people died and a house burnt down_ \- they say. But that doesn’t mean anything when five of those people were children who didn’t have life insurance policies, and the remaining adults had probably the lowest insurance policies allowed – they were werewolves. They lived peacefully on their own territory and they never expected to die because their _house_ burnt down while they were trapped in the basement. 

By the time Laura and Derek reached New York, a year after the fire and the deaths of his family, they were running low already. Laura had been careless, reckless. She’d been angry to be stuck with the title of Alpha at such a young age, to be stuck taking care of her sixteen year old brother without any guidance. She spent the money on fancy hotel rooms and a nice, sleek black car that Derek thought seemed rather overpriced. She told Derek on the night of his seventeenth birthday, exactly a year after the fire, as they sat in a swanky New York loft that was probably draining them of money as they spoke, “We’re broke. We’ve got nothing. You’ve got to get a job, and so do I.” 

The problem was that Derek had no work experience, and no official education. He hadn’t graduated, and Laura mentioned him getting his GED exactly once. He’d screamed and yelled at her until she’d growled, forced him to submit and apologize, before telling him it was just a suggestion, and he didn’t have to do it if he didn’t feel it was necessary. So he pondered what, exactly he could do to help out with their financial situation as he walked around the city. Laura was at her new office job – hopefully working her way up the food chain, she’d told Derek as she got dressed to go. 

The sun had just set and Laura wasn’t due home for another two hours. Derek was in a part of the city he’d never really ventured down before, and men and women with hardly any clothes started appearing on the street corners. They purred and made catcalls at him, and Derek stared at him. 

Sex was what got him into this giant mess in the first place, he thought to himself. He’d lost his family because he’d been thinking with his dick and not his brain, so maybe he should be punishing himself that very same way. Maybe he’d finally feel punished enough someday that the guilt wouldn’t completely eat away at him constantly. 

A meth-eaten faced woman purrs, “Can I help you, baby boy?” Derek’s fingers tremble almost as much as they did that day – his sixteenth birthday when the smell of ash filled his nose and the heat of the burnt out house was radiating out towards him. He blinks at her. 

“I want – I want to –” he gestures. He’s never been good with words, but he’s gotten worse since last year. His mother used to call him ‘beautiful and emotionally constipated,’ and tell him it was a good thing God graced him with such a beautiful smile because no one would ever understand him otherwise. 

Derek never smiles anymore, either. 

“You want a whore?” the woman asks. 

Derek shakes his head. The woman’s chapped and scabbed lips curl up into a smile. “You want to be a whore?” She asks him, and Derek swallows tight, nods once, and she laughs, wicked peals of it bouncing off the street corner. “Sure, alright, baby boy. Me ‘n Bitsy will show you the ropes. You can call me Kitty.” 

+

Within four months, Bitsy – a woman with glassy, heroin soaked eyes – and Kitty have taught him what he needs to know, and Derek has a semi-regular client list built up. He tells Kitty he doesn’t want women, and Kitty’s eyes twinkle. “It’s okay if you’re cock hungry, baby boy,” she says, and Derek doesn’t have the heart to tell her that’s not the truth – he’s not _anything_ hungry, but he’d prefer a man’s rough hands over a woman’s soft and weaker ones, over a woman’s hands when they have so much _power_ to destroy everything he loves with the flick of a match. 

He tells Laura he got a job working the nightshift as a janitor in some faceless, nameless building where they didn’t ask too many questions when they hired him, and Laura shrugs and pours herself another glass of wine before locking herself in the bedroom for the night. As long as he comes up with half the rent and grocery money each month, she doesn’t ask too many questions. 

It’s so quiet in the apartment. Derek tries to only spend enough time there to eat and sleep, other times working the corners or playing cards with Bitsy and a few other guys and girls he’s met before they all head out to their respective street corners. They’re nearly all drug addicts, the lot of them, and Derek sometimes wishes he could convince them to stop – to _not kill themselves_ \- to tell them that life is so short and someone, somewhere, surely, will miss them, but he tried mentioning it to Bitsy once, and she’d snapped that her entire family was dead, and it didn’t matter much, now did it? So he keeps his opinions to himself, plays five card draw with the rest of them until it’s time to work, and then he stands on his corner and gets lost in his own thoughts while observing the city move around him, until someone comes up and asks how much for that pretty mouth of his, and Derek ends up on his knees in this complete stranger’s SUV letting him fuck Derek’s mouth for an extra fifty bucks because he might be a little short on rent this much – just a little. 

It’s not the ideal life, not the life he dreamt about aloud to his parents – he’s no Dodgers pitcher, he’s no lawyer, he’s no doctor – but it pays the bills and it keeps Laura from directing her judging, angry gaze at him too much.

It’s what he deserves. 

+

It’s like a movie scene, almost.

In the dead of the night, a sleek black town car screeches to a stop in front of Derek, and the back window rolls down. A young guy – maybe all of Derek’s age – but he looks younger – sticks his head out the window and offers Derek a large smile. “What’s up?” he says. Derek looks up at the sky, where the rain is still pouring down, and then down at where his boot has landed in the middle of a mud puddle, water soaking through to his toes. Then he looks back at the guy. 

“Gee,” he says. “Not much.”

“Ha, ha,” the man says. “Listen, whole night. Sound good? It’ll get you out of the rain. I’ll pay double what you usually charge.” 

“I’m too high maintenance for that,” Derek deadpans. Besides that, he doesn’t know what to charge for a whole night, because no one has ever asked for a whole night. 

“A thousand,” the guy says, giving him a sharp grin. “Five hundred upfront. You know you waaaaant to,” he sings. 

Derek heaves a sigh, glances up at the ominous sky again. Raindrops splatter in his eye. Derek shrugs. “Yeah, okay, whatever.” 

“Awesome,” says the guy, and he swings open the door before sliding over to the left side of the car so Derek can climb in. Once Derek has shut the door, the man taps a screen divider, and it slides down. 

“Yes, Stiles?”

“Tom, take us to the hotel I mentioned earlier, please,” Stiles says pleasantly, and the divider slides back up as Stiles turns to look at Derek.

“I’m obviously Stiles,” he says. 

Derek grunts out his own name and stares out the window at the passing traffic as they head into a busier part of the city. 

“Are you cold? It was cold out. I can turn the heat up, is that okay?” Stiles asks, and Derek is starting to regret this. He gets the impression Stiles likes to talk. A lot. 

“’M fine,” Derek mumbles, and Stiles opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but then he doesn’t, and it’s quiet the rest of the ride to the hotel.

+

The hotel is fancy. 

It’s the kind of hotel Laura used to get when they stopped for a night in some random city, spend too much money on room service and pay-per-view movies. She would pick the stupidest one and complain the whole way through about how much they’d spent on it, and Derek would sit curled up on his own bed, staring blankly at the TV as she bitched about everything from the movie to how shitty the food was to how soft the towels were. They worked their way across the country. Derek had thought maybe she was aiming to hit all the states in the continental US, but then she’d parked in New York City, spent some time on the phone calling random ‘apartment for rent!’ ads, until she decided she liked one enough and they moved the few things they had into the already fully furnished loft. 

Derek doesn’t like these hotels, but Stiles is paying him an entire month’s worth of rent and groceries and then some, and Derek had just spent earlier in the evening worrying about whether he’d even get enough to cover half the month’s half of rent he owed. 

Derek looks around the room and then looks back at Stiles, who his loosening his tie and pouring himself a glass of scotch. Derek assumes Stiles is one of those pretty boy rich kids living off Daddy’s money. “You work for your dad?” he blurts out, just to prove himself right. Stiles turns and stares at him, with an amused twinkle in his eyes.

“You think I’m a trust-fund baby?” Stiles asks him. 

Derek shrugs. 

“I own a company. One of those started-in-the-basement-turned-out-genius website type things that old rich guys bought into to be a part of modern age technology. I’m the CEO. Currently trying to move the office to New York .” 

Derek blinks. “So. You own the company? You created it.” 

Stiles nods. “In answer to your first question, I’m not a trust-fund baby. My dad is the Sherriff of a small town. I once told him I was going to follow in his footsteps and he knelt down next to me and shook me and told me to never follow in his footsteps. This was after he’d just seen two kids basically become orphans, but I figured – maybe I should listen. He’s much prouder of me now that I bought him that truck last year.” 

Stiles smiles at him. 

Derek remembers the Sheriff of the town he was born and raised in. The Sheriff had stood next to him, clapped a hand on his shoulder and reeled a shaking, sobbing mess of Derek in against his chest and held him while he hyperventilated, said all the right things to calm him down. When Derek was finally able to breathe again, the Sheriff had said, “My son – he’s an anxious little guy. Gets panic attacks kind of often.” Then he’d said, “I won’t tell you it’s gonna get better, but you’re gonna live through it, kid. I promise.” 

Derek thinks about Stiles and imagines his kind eyes in an older man’s body, and he bets that Stiles’ father is a really good Sheriff if he’s got that same kind, understanding expression. “What did you want?” Derek asks, changing the subject, going to peel his shirt off. 

Stiles shrugs. “Company,” he tells him. Derek arches a brow, and Stiles continues. “I don’t – I guess I’m kind of on the road a lot. I don’t really have a home base currently, what with trying to move. I’m trying to plant roots here in New York, but it’s taking longer than I expected, and I’m getting tired of staring at the same four hotel room walls by myself.”

“You’re not asking for sex,” Derek says flatly. 

Stiles looks at him, eyes twinkling again. “I’m not adverse to sex,” he says. “But I’d prefer if you were more into it. Mostly I just saw you standing in the rain and decided I didn’t like seeing you standing in the rain. You made me sad.” 

“I made you _sad,_ ” Derek repeats incredulously, blinking at him. Stiles gives him a cheeky grin and nods. Derek doesn’t know what to say to this so he snaps his mouth shut and doesn’t say anything, just stares back at Stiles and watches as Stiles sips at his drink. 

“Did you want a drink?” Stiles finally offers out his own glass. Derek shakes his head. Stiles taps a finger against the bar for a moment, seeming to think things over, before he nods. “Okay,” he says. “How about we watch a movie?” 

“A movie?” Derek asks, and it’s still in such a flat disbelieving tone. He’s starting to think that Stiles is certifiably insane, like maybe he’s toying with Derek, convincing him to relax, and then in the end he’ll pull out a huge knife and start torturing him. Derek can’t really die from a knife wound unless certain things are on the knife, but getting stabbed still hurts like a bitch. It happened once back in New Mexico when he and Laura got run out of some town by some hunters. 

Stiles’ smile starts to twitch, like he’s trying not to grin wider. “Yeah,” he says. “You see any good movies lately?” 

Derek shakes his head. He can’t remember the last time he watched TV, much less went to the movie theatre. “Great!” Stiles sets his drink down and goes to the bed, flopping down on it. He picks up the remote and starts flicking through the channels, sighing when he finds nothing interesting on. He turns on reruns of an old 80’s sitcom that Derek remembers his mom used to love, and then pats the empty spot on the mattress next to him. “Sit _down,_ you’re making me anxious.” 

“I’m making you anxious?” Derek asks, still sounding incredulous. He thinks that maybe Stiles is the type of guy that he finds himself never really actually _believing_ what Stiles says. “I think you’re a serial killer!” 

Stiles blinks at him before bursting into laughter; full on, body racking laughter, something that sounds cheerful and disbelieving all at once. “I’m _not_ a serial killer,” he gasps through laughs. Derek crosses his arms and huffs, rolling his eyes. Stiles stops laughing and sits up straighter to face Derek. “Look,” he says. “You can stand there all night. Or don’t. You can leave, but I won’t pay you the other five hundred. I’d prefer it if you stayed, though.” 

“Why?” 

“Because… because it’s cold and rainy out, and you looked miserable and tired. And this bed is really nice – incredible sheet count, which, it better be, I’m paying like an arm and a leg for this room – not that I don’t have that much money but -” Stiles cuts himself off and clears his throat. “The point is. I’m lonely and you deserve a nice bed and a warm room. Maybe you have an apartment or maybe you don’t – I don’t know. I’d just prefer knowing you were inside.” 

Derek takes all of this in, and he stands there for a long moment, staring at Stiles while Stiles looks down at the mattress and runs his fingers over the sheets. Finally he steps forward. Stiles snaps his head up. “Whoa! Shoes off. No shoes on the bed.” Derek sighs loudly, and kicks his boots off before crawling up on the bed and sitting a couple inches away from Stiles. Stiles doesn’t mind though, because he sinks back against the headboard and starts watching the show again. 

“The problem with this show,” he tells Derek somberly, “is that they just made Tony too stupid in the end. I mean, he was always goofy – he was a _manny_ of all things. But he was never stupid until the last few seasons!” 

Stiles keeps rambling about how, oh, God, isn’t Alyssa Milano still so gorgeous? And what about those fashion trends back in the 80’s, man, they were something, weren’t they? And why do you think those fashion trends are coming back? 

Derek hadn’t known 80’s fashion trends _were_ back in. But instead of saying anything about it, he shrugs and listens to Stiles’ ramblings, and it’s kind of comforting, just a little. Enough that he closes his eyes and slips off to sleep, head drooping onto Stiles’ shoulder. He’s barely conscious when he notices Stiles’ hand reaching up to stroke his hair, and it’s such a good feeling, a feeling of comfort and warmth and love, that Derek doesn’t tell him to stop.

+

He wakes up once in the middle of the night and Stiles is sprawled out across the mattress, one arm and leg slung over Derek like he’s trying to keep him in place while also still trying to sleep spread-eagle. Derek thinks about shoving him off, but Stiles makes him feel safe. No one makes him feel safe, no one has for years.

Not even Laura. 

She’s constantly busy working at her job now, having worked her way up to a management position from secretary, and Derek is proud of her. Laura was always smart – she was applying for colleges when it happened, had wanted to go somewhere East, meet new people and see new things. She’d been hoping for an NYU acceptance. Derek found out later they’d accepted her, found the acceptance letter crumpled up in the bottom of her duffel bag as he was doing laundry. 

Even more reason to feel guilty, he supposed. 

He falls back asleep because he doesn’t want to lose the feeling just yet. 

+

“Listen,” Stiles says as he ties his tie and double checks that it’s straight. He grabs a bottle of hair gel, squeezes a little out into his palms and starts running it through his hair until it seems somewhat tame. Derek sits on the bed, knees pulled up to his chest, arms crossed around them, and chin resting on one knee, watching him. “Stay here.” 

Derek lifts his head up. “What?” 

“Stay here,” Stiles says again, eyeing him in the mirror. “Stay here, and stay safe, Derek. I’m not asking for sex – I just. Okay, look. I wouldn’t mind someone who can attend some charity functions with me, maybe some dinners. Like a… like a permanent date or an escort or whatever? You don’t have to have sex.” 

Derek blinks at him, and then stares at his reflection in the mirror. He swallows, watches his throat move. He studies himself. He looks _tired._ He’s skinnier than he’s been in a while, because Laura has been home less and less, and Derek has been avoiding the empty apartment, wandering around the streets of New York instead of eating or working out. He’s got a five o’clock shadow and there are bags under his eyes. He hasn’t gone outside of the city to shift and run around in months. 

“I have a dinner tonight,” Stiles is saying, chewing on his bottom lip hesitantly. “There’s this tailor I can send you to, he’ll get you a couple nice suits and then some casual clothes. I can call now.” 

Derek blinks and pulls himself out of his thoughts. 

“How much?” he asks. His voice sounds hoarse. He hasn’t spoken since he woke up to Stiles kissing his neck in his dreams. Stiles had woken up two seconds later and apologized profusely for five straight minutes. 

“I’m a cuddler,” Stiles had said, and Derek had shrugged and got out of the bed to go to the bathroom. 

Stiles thinks about Derek’s question for a moment. “Ten thousand,” he says slowly, “for a week.”  
Derek’s stomach jumps, flutters, and he breathes out, trying to stay calm. He wouldn’t have to have sex with random, strange, mean and sometimes gross men for a week. He wouldn’t have to think about rent or food or clothing for even longer. And Stiles – Stiles was nice, if a little too energetic and thoughtful for Derek’s own good. Derek calculated when the full moon was, because he preferred to be alone those nights, but it was two weeks away. 

“Okay,” he finally whispers, and Stiles’ face breaks out into a grin. He grabs his suit jacket and puts it on, running a hand through his hair once more, before picking his wallet, keys, and briefcase up. He tosses Derek the second room key. “I’ll call Rajiv on my way to my meeting, and then I’ll have Tom circle back and get you. You got a cell phone?” 

Derek shakes his head. 

“He’ll call the hotel phone then,” Stiles says. “You’ll probably get back before me. Dinner is at seven and I’ll be back here by six thirty. If you can be ready by then, that’d be great.” 

And then Stiles leans in and – he kisses the top of Derek’s head. And walks out the door. Derek is frozen on the bed, staring at the door that’s just shut for a long moment, before he relaxes again and falls back against the sheets and pillows to sleep for a little while longer. 

+

The car ride to Stiles’ tailor is peaceful, because neither Tom nor Derek speak. They pull up in front of the building and Tom is out of the car, coming around and opening Derek’s door before Derek can really even gather his thoughts long enough to open it himself. He smiles at Derek. “I’ll be outside while you get your things, sir.” Derek shifts on his feet uncomfortably. Tom is treating him with a respect that Derek’s never really had, never learned how to deal with. He’s always been the poor orphan hooker with shadowy eyes and an angry voice. He’s never been the superior one. 

Finally he settles on, “YoucanjustcallmeDerekI’llgonow,” because well. No one has ever taught him many social graces, either. It doesn’t seem to bother Tom though, who has the beginnings of a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. 

Derek walks into the building and is greeted by a blonde woman with bright red lipstick on her lips and four inch pumps on her feet, dressed in a tight black dress, and clicking her red fingernails against the countertop. She curls her lips up in a grimace at Derek, giving him a once over. “You’re the one Stiles called about?” she asks. 

Derek is apparently mute today because he just nods. 

“Oh, dear. Stiles always did love a good project,” she says, and then nods towards a cushy looking chair in the corner. “Have a seat there and I’ll go get Rajiv. He’s going to love torturing you.” 

Rajiv does torture him. He clucks his tongue over Derek’s unfortunate fashion choices, forces him to change probably forty times, measures his inseam three times for an ‘accurate’ measurement, criticized every movement Derek made, had his assistant Erica fetch him different clothes and fabrics the entire time, and then stood with her and judged Derek while they waited for him to change. 

When Derek is done, he exits the shop with a smack on the butt from Erica, a kiss on the cheek from Rajiv, and Tom scrambling up the sidewalk to help him with the armfuls of clothes he’s got slung over his arms. “Thanks,” Derek mumbles to Tom, cheeks flushed red in embarrassment. 

“No problem, Derek,” he says, smiling kindly at him, and Derek just ducks his head and slips into the car.

“Anywhere else you’d like to go today, Derek?” Tom asks, once he’s in the car. Derek rests his forehead against his window and thinks about it for a long moment. 

“The Statue of Liberty,” he finally says slowly. “If I’ve got – do I have time? Before… before the dinner thing?” 

Tom smiles at him, that same kind smile. Derek thinks maybe Stiles hired all these people from his hometown, because no one in New York has ever been this nice to him. He has a feeling they’re not just being nice because Stiles told them to, either. Erica was a little rough around the edges, but everything she said had a kind, if flirtatious feel to it, and Rajiv, though constantly criticizing, always had a compliment to make up for it. 

He has to take the ferry to see the Statue. He asks Tom if he wants to come, and Tom asks him if he _wants_ him to come. Derek’s not used to having choices, not really, so he takes a moment before he says, “It would be awfully boring to sit there all day. I’d like you to, yes.” Tom smiles again and nods. 

When Derek had woken up the second time after Stiles had left, he’d noticed the AmEx card sitting on the desk in the hotel with the post-it note stuck to it, saying, _yours to use, forgot to give it to you before I left, see you tonight – S._ He’d also left sixty bucks cash with Derek, and Derek uses some of that now to pay for him and Tom to get across the ferry to the Statue. 

It’s a nice day, breezy, completely different from last night’s chilly September rain. The sun is shining, and it’s not too cold. Derek tilts his head up to catch some sunlight, and grips the sides of the boat as it rocks some. When they reach the Statue, Derek looks up at it. 

“Pretty big,” Tom comments. 

“It’s huge,” Derek says softly. 

“You’ve never seen it before?” 

Derek thinks about how Laura promised when they got to New York they’d go see all the sights. They’d walk down Broadway, see a play, see the statue. They’d get the most famous food and eat it until they were sick. They’d go to all the cool record stores. 

She’d been drunk at the time. 

Derek hadn’t known werewolves could even get drunk until Laura had finally reached the point that even her body couldn’t burn off the alcohol fast enough. 

“No,” Derek shakes his head. 

“You know what this Statue represents?” Tom asks, pointing up at her. Derek shrugs. 

“Freedom,” he says. 

Tom smiles. “Freedom. And a fresh start.” 

Derek thinks about how he hasn’t had a fresh start yet. He’s had changes, because his past was burnt away. But he’s still being chained down to the same guilt, the same angst, the same nightmares that wake him up with the taste of ash in the back of his mouth. 

“Yeah,” Derek says, closing his eyes and soaking up the sun just a little more. “A fresh start.” 

+

Derek has only worn a suit once before in his life, and it was cheap and scratchy and Laura had told him it was too short for him, but it was the only thing she could find at the Salvation Army because the insurance money hadn’t come through yet.

It was for his family’s multiple funerals. 

This is a tux and it fits him like a second skin and though it’s still uncomfortable, he feels a little more confident in himself.

Like he can be Stiles’ date, not an actual hired hooker. 

Stiles tumbles through the door at exactly six-thirty and throws his briefcase in the corner of the room, sighing loudly. 

“I love my job, I love my job,” he murmurs as he loosens his tie and pulls it away from his neck, also throwing it in the corner of the room. He throws his suit jacket there, too, and then starts unbuttoning his shirt. Derek coughs, and Stiles freezes. He slowly looks up. 

“Hey,” he says. “Wow.” 

Derek crosses his arms, now aware of the fact that he’s in a very expensive tux, standing in the middle of Stiles’ hotel room. 

“You look great!” 

“Thanks,” Derek says. 

“So I’ll get changed and then… we’ll go? Tom’s already downstairs waiting. We’ve only got fifteen minutes to get there so. I’ll hurry.” 

Derek nods and sits carefully on the bed so he doesn’t ruin his outfit. He waits for Stiles, staring blankly at the wall, listening to Stiles hum ‘Hit Me With Your Best Shot’ to himself as he redresses. He comes out of the room, still trying to straighten his bowtie. “This fucking thing never goes straight,” he says, glowering at the floor. Derek stands up and walks over. He straightens it, steps back to double check, tilts it a little more to the right until it’s perfect even, and then shrugs. 

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Stiles asks, sounding amused. 

Derek shakes his head. 

Tom opens the door for them when they get outside, and Stiles gestures for Derek to climb in first. “What’d you do today?” Stiles asks, while tapping at something on his phone. Derek shrugs and stares at Stiles staring at his phone. He can’t seem to put it down. 

“You hate your job,” Derek blurts out. Stiles freezes, and looks slowly up at him. 

“I don’t – it’s not like that,” Stiles says, and he sounds uncomfortable. 

“It seems like that’s exactly what it’s like,” Derek says. 

“And you just love your job?” Stiles shoots back. 

“That’s different, I’m p – ” Derek’s tongue feels thick in his mouth. He supposes he’s never openly admitted that he feels like this is his punishment, like it’s a proper punishment, to be treated like the scum of the streets in exchange for the fact that he killed almost his entire family. He’s got an uncle with his mind burned away back home, and he’s got a sister who tries to drink herself to oblivion every night before getting up and going to a job she probably hates but works hard at anyway. 

Stiles arches a brow. “You’re what?” he asks softly. 

“Nothing,” Derek snaps, crossing his arms. “I just think that… if you hate your job enough that you have to try and convince yourself you _don’t_ every night, you should change your life. Make a fresh start.” 

Stiles doesn’t say anything. 

+

The charity dinner goes well, Derek putting on his best nice-people smile, talking when necessary, and hanging off Stiles’ arm when he needs him to. The food kind of sucks, but Derek doesn’t really care all that much, and Stiles keeps up a conversation with their whole table, discussing politics with a redheaded girl and a blonde guy. “I’m serious,” Stiles is saying. “Just because we’ve got money doesn’t mean we need to be republicans.” 

The redhead rolls her eyes. 

“Whatever, Stiles,” she tells him, and then picks at her salad, wrinkling her nose.

They stay for a couple of the speeches and when the dancing starts, Stiles starts saying his goodbyes. “You’re not going to dance?” the redhead, who Derek’s learned is named Lydia, asks. Stiles huffs. 

“I have two left feet and you know it, Lyds. I look like a monkey trying to be elegant.” 

Lydia laughs. “Maybe with a decent lead you’ll do alright,” she says, and slides her eyes to Derek. Derek flushes, thinking, _please don’t make me dance._ Stiles takes one look at the expression on Derek’s face before laughing and shaking his head. 

“We’re going now,” he tells Lydia, and then grabs Derek’s arm and leads him out the door. 

+

“Did you hate it enough to not do it again the rest of the week?” Stiles asks him as he crawls into the bed. They’re both freshly showered, having taken turns, and Derek scrubs at his hair with the towel one more time before tossing it back into the bathroom. 

“It wasn’t… I’m not used to… people,” Derek finally says. 

“You deal with people all the time,” Stiles squints his eyes.

“ _Nice_ people,” Derek says, punching at his pillow to get comfortable. 

Stiles says, “ _Oh,_ Derek,” but nothing else, and turns the TV to that same 80’s sitcom before flicking out the bedside lamp and wrapping his arms all around Derek. Derek stiffens at the touch for a long moment, before the laugh track echoing out of the television reminds him of where he is and who he’s with, and the fact that Stiles would never hurt him.

Derek doesn’t know why he’s so sure of this, but he is.

+

He takes some time out of his day three days later to give Tom the address to his apartment so he can leave this month’s half of his rent on the counter and a note for Laura. 

He’s four days into his week with Stiles, and they’ve attended a couple more dinners, before falling asleep together, curled around each other, in Stiles’ huge bed. Stiles has never once initiated anything more, and for some reason Derek gets more and more disappointed by this every night. 

He doesn’t want to be the one to initiate it, but he thinks sex with Stiles might be good – _pleasurable_ , even. 

Stiles works late on the nights they don’t have plans, and he always comes in grumbling about his job and the people who work for him and how stupid interns are, and wondering why he ever chose this for himself in the first place. Derek never tells him that he should just quit, because it seems to be a sensitive subject for Stiles. 

Derek thinks maybe everyone Stiles knows is so proud of him for creating his company, that he can’t bear to let them down by selling it off or putting someone else in charge. He’s heard the phone calls from Stiles’ dad, and his best friend. They gush about the latest things Stiles has told them or sent them. They tell him how awesome he is to be so young and successful, and Derek sees Stiles biting his lip to keep himself from complaining about his day, or his week, or his month, even. 

Tom drops him off right in front of the building. “I’ll wait for you here, Derek?” he asks. 

“Sure,” Derek shrugs. “I should only be a minute. Don’t stand out in the rain though, I’ll let myself out.” 

He makes his way up the steps to the fourth floor, and turns his key in the lock, swinging the door open. 

Laura is in front of him in seconds, eyes blazing red. “ _Where have you been?_ ” She spits out around a mouthful of lengthened canines. 

Derek blinks at her, freezing, the urge to submit rushing through his veins. He drops the keys to the apartment floor. 

“ _Four days,_ ” Laura is growling. “I haven’t seen or heard from you in _four days,_ Derek. Not. One. Word.” She reaches up and wraps her hand around his throat, slamming him up against the wall. Derek chokes, struggles to try and bare his neck to her, eyes flashing blue in an attempt to show his submission. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Laura asks him. “You think that’s something we just do? Not tell each other _where we are_ after everything you’ve already put us through?” 

Derek gasps for air until she says that. Then he stops breathing. Laura lets go of his neck and he falls to his knees, panting. “Y-you – knew?” he asks brokenly. 

Laura sneers, growls above him. “Please, Derek. Your guilt was overwhelming, suffocating. I looked into some things. It wasn’t hard to figure out. You fell for a pretty face, let your dick do the thinking, and killed our family in the process.” 

“Why did you let me stay then?” Derek asks raggedly. 

“Because you were all I have left,” Laura says simply. “And then you go and fucking try and disappear.”

“I didn’t – I’m staying with a – I didn’t think you noticed,” he says, and he’s desperate for her to understand, he needs her to see that communication has been their biggest failure for so long. He needs her to see that he misses who they used to be. He’s broken, shriveled up on the inside, and he just wants forgiveness, just wants Laura to tell him they’ll be okay. He needs Laura to say _I forgive you,_ and mean it.

She doesn’t. 

She says, “Whatever, Derek.” And walks out of the room. Derek leaves his part of the rent on the counter and grabs some things out of his room. He leaves his key next to the rent on the counter, and slips out of the door.

The rain is coming down harder when Derek steps out, but Tom is standing waiting for him despite what Derek told him, and he rushes over to help Derek with his things.

And maybe he thinks it’s the rain, or maybe he knows it’s tears on Derek’s cheeks, but he doesn’t comment, and Derek is thankful for that. 

There are bruise marks around his throat too, but they’re already fading away.

When Stiles gets back to the room that night he notices Derek’s extra things, but he doesn’t say anything. He lets Derek curl around him, tuck his face into Stiles’ neck, and sniffle occasionally. He strokes Derek’s hair and down his spine and whispers nice, sort of meaningless things against Derek’s forehead. 

But he never asks why. 

+

It’s the end of the week and Derek is nervous. 

He’s got nowhere to go, not really – and Stiles hasn’t mentioned anything about Derek staying here any longer. He does say, before he leaves in the morning, “We’ve got this huge dinner party tonight with a bunch of board members and stuff. Is your tux ready? Oh god, is _my_ tux ready?” he sounds nervous, and Derek wants to reach out and touch his shoulder, wants to touch his face. Derek wants to _comfort_ him. 

Instead he says, “I gave them to Tom to take to the dry cleaners two days ago. He brought them back yesterday when we went out.” 

Stiles blinks. 

“You gave him mine? You went out?” 

Derek shrugs. Stiles walks over and grabs his briefcase, and, like he’s done before he leaves every morning all week, he kisses the top of Derek’s head and walks out. Derek no longer tenses up when he does it – he relaxes into it. 

It’s already getting colder and rainier, fall turning to winter in the city, and Derek’s gotten too comfortable with not having to stand out on a dark street corner for hours at night, with not having gravel digging into his knees where his jeans have ripped as he sucks some faceless, nameless guy off. He’s in for a shock when he has to go back out and work, he knows it. But he comforts himself with the fact he’ll have ten thousand dollars to find himself a new place and maybe, hopefully, not have to work the streets for a while longer, if he’s sparse with his cash. But New York is expensive and ten grand will only go so far. 

Once Stiles has been gone, and Tom has called up to tell him he’s here if Derek needs to go anywhere, Derek gets dressed and calls back down to Tom. “I want to go see the Statue again,” Derek says, and he can practically hear Tom’s smile. 

“Of course, Derek. If we go now we’ll be back in time for you to grab some food before getting ready for tonight.” 

“Okay.” 

Derek’s picked another sunny day to go and see the statue, and Tom chooses not to go on the ferry this time, instead pulling out a book and waving it at him. “I get a lot of reading done,” Tom tells him, and Derek shrugs. He pays to get on the ferry and tilts his head back, feeling the breeze and the sunlight, just like the first time, and leans against the railing, feeling a light spray of water up against his hands occasionally. 

When the ferry lets him off, he stares up at the statue for a long moment, just looking. _A fresh start,_ Tom had said that first day. 

_Freedom,_ Derek had said. And he wants both. 

+

Stiles is miserable all through the dinner. Everyone there apparently wants to talk business, the food isn’t that great because Derek couldn’t understand anything on the menu, so he just ordered whatever seemed the most familiar. Beside him, Stiles grumbles under his breath and smiles nicely at the men at the table, talks politely with their wives, who are all staring kind of hungrily, if not judgmentally, at Derek. Derek feels uneasy. He realizes for the first time that Stiles is here with a _man,_ is openly gay, and these people at this table are maybe judging him for that. 

Someone at the table says something, and Stiles stiffens next to him, eyes blazing with anger. He opens his mouth, and before Derek knows what he’s doing, he’s slipping his hand under the table, reaching over, and patting Stiles’ thigh before wrapping his hand around as much as he can and squeezing Stiles’ thigh lightly, trying to comfort him. 

And Stiles – Stiles relaxes, exhales, and pastes on another smile, choosing instead to say nothing. 

Stiles slips his own hand under the table, grabs Derek’s hand, and tangles his fingers with Derek’s. He squeezes lightly, and Derek thinks he’ll let go, but he doesn’t. 

He holds Derek’s hand all through dinner. 

 

+

When they get to the hotel again, Stiles throws his tie and jacket in the corner of the room, just like every day. They always magically disappear when Derek leaves the room for the day, if Derek doesn’t clean them up first. Derek likes organization in his room, he likes everything to be in its rightful place. He doesn’t mind cleaning up after Stiles, because it gives him something to do. 

“I hate my job,” Stiles says as Derek stoops down to pick up the tie and jacket and hang them up for dry cleaning. Derek freezes, knelt down, fingers tangled in the expensive fabric of the jacket. “You were right – that night. I hate my job.” 

“Okay,” Derek says. 

“What?” Stiles asks, and Derek looks up at him. Stiles looks incredulous, reminding Derek so much of that first night that Stiles brought him back to the room, told him he _made him sad,_ when he looked at Derek. “No! You’re supposed to say something like, ‘well, not everyone loves their job.’ And, ‘we do what we have to do to get by.’ Or, ‘we accept the jobs we think we deserve!’” 

“We accept the love we think we deserve,” Derek frowns.

“ _What?_ ” 

“You quoted it wrong,” Derek points out. 

“The fact that you’ve read Perks is amazing, really, but that is _beside_ the point. Tell me it’s okay to hate my job, Derek!” 

Derek is still frowning. “Why would I tell you that?” 

“You hate your job! You still – you – I mean maybe you don’t have a choice, I don’t know. Most people _don’t_ have a choice. That’s why you’re supposed to tell me to suck it up, because I’m a rich dude who has all the money in the world and I shouldn’t complain!” 

“I was punishing myself,” Derek says quietly. Stiles freezes. Derek realizes he’s still knelt down in the corner of the room, and he stands up, straightens his clothes out, brushing an imaginary piece of lint off his jacket. 

“What do you mean?” Stiles asks. 

“Maybe I could’ve gotten another job,” Derek shrugs. “I don’t know – I don’t really have a high school diploma or anything, but there are lots of places that don’t ask many questions – I talked to some of them before I chose this… profession. But then I ran into Kitty and I was lost and I’d just slept with the woman who killed my entire family, and I felt like I deserved it. I was seventeen and guilty and I wanted something to remind me of why I was so guilty.” 

“Oh, Derek,” Stiles says, and his tongue sounds thick, like he’s choking on emotion, and his eyes are wide. 

“You shouldn’t hate your job,” Derek tells him. “You should love what you choose to do. You deserve it. You’re a good person.” 

Stiles stares at him before he lunges forward and kisses him. Derek freezes. Stiles pulls away, says, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t – you didn’t – I’m _sorry._ ” 

“I don’t – usually kiss,” Derek stutters. 

Stiles squints his eyes. “You don’t kiss? But I love kissing! Kissing is the best part!” 

“I meant… when they – it’s just a… it’s too emotional.” 

Stiles stares at him, hooded eyes filled with lust, licking his lips occasionally like he’s still trying to catch the taste of Derek. Derek tries looking everywhere but directly at Stiles. “Is that what this still is?” Stiles asks him. 

Derek inhales. 

“I don’t… I don’t want it to be,” he whispers, and Stiles smiles, cups his face with both hands, and kisses him again, much gentler this time, softer and filled with kindness, caring, and comfort. Derek likes it. He likes kissing Stiles, thinks maybe he will never want to stop. He likes it when Stiles pushes him back towards the bed, still kissing him, running his hands along Derek’s sides, tightening his fingers around Derek’s waist, not asking to take his clothes off, just asking to get to know him better. 

Derek falls against the mattress and gasps when Stiles starts kissing along his jawline. 

He’s a wolf, has been a beta all his life, but it’s just a background thing now. He hasn’t thought about being a wolf in so long, hasn’t been threatened by it, has hidden it so well. But when Stiles kisses his jaw and starts kissing along his neck, Derek suddenly has trouble finding control. He wants to learn every part of Stiles’ body, wants to memorize it, wants to keep him safe, protected. Derek has never felt anything like it before, but he sinks back into the feeling and tilts his neck to let Stiles have more access. 

“Derek,” Stiles pulls away. “Derek, we don’t have to –” 

“I’m a werewolf,” Derek blurts out, and when he opens his eyes he knows they’re a shocking electric blue, shining bright in the dim light. Stiles gasps. 

“You –” 

“It’s not something – it’s how I got my family killed, I guess I try to hide that part of me,” Derek says, words feeling like they’re going to choke him. He doesn’t know why he wants to tell Stiles everything. Probably because Stiles makes him feel safe and cared for and even _loved._ “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says to Stiles, and reaches a hand up and presses it against Stiles’ chest, against his heart, where he can hear the _thumpthumpthump_ pounding against his ribcage. 

“What do you want?” Stiles asks, licking his lips. 

Derek thinks about this for a long moment. He doesn’t have a lot of words – has never had a lot of words. He wants one word, just one, that will explain to Stiles how much Derek wants him, how much he wants Stiles to accept him and maybe love him. It’s too soon – has only been a week, but somehow Stiles has wormed his way into Derek’s brain and mind, and Derek can’t find it in him to resent Stiles for it. 

So he says, “Freedom,” and Stiles presses his own hand against Derek’s chest, against Derek’s heart, where it’s also pounding, thudding loudly in his own ears. 

And Stiles says, “You can have it,” so simply that Derek feels like crying, feels like curling up against Stiles chest and letting Stiles comfort him for all of his life. 

He closes his eyes and licks his lips, and then tilts his head back even more, leaving his neck fully exposed. Stiles may not know much about werewolves or how they work, but the sound of his gasp echoing around the room tells Derek that Stiles has an idea of how much this means, and to not take it lightly. Instead, he leans down and kisses the pale expanse of Derek’s throat ever-so-carefully, lightly, the brush of his lips. 

“Thank you,” Stiles says. 

Derek says, “Thank _you._ ” 

+

Derek’s never really enjoyed sex. His first time with Kate was fumbling and awkward and Kate had laughed at him, teased him for it, before burning his family alive the next day. The rest of his experience extends to random strangers in dark alleyways or cheap motels. 

Sex with Stiles is – it’s a new experience. Stiles takes care of him, kisses every inch of revealed skin, peels away layer after layer of Derek until he reaches the core, learns what Derek likes and doesn’t like. Derek likes when Stiles kisses the inside of his knee as he stretches Derek slowly. He likes when Stiles kisses his lips and whispers against them, “Okay?” he likes Stiles’ hands running across every part of him. 

He likes everything. 

Stiles is so gentle and kind and careful, unlike anything Derek has ever known. Derek runs his own fumbling, inexperience hands along the curve of Stiles’ hips, kisses the dip in his hips, comes back up and kisses Stiles on the mouth because Derek likes _kissing_ , never thought he would enjoy it as much as he does. 

Stiles is gentle when he fucks him, never goes faster than he thinks Derek wants, never starts to get selfish. He gasps, “ _Perfect,_ ” against the skin of Derek’s neck and Derek squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his fingers in the bed sheets and shakes his head, opens his mouth to say _no, not me, not me,_ but all that comes out is a ragged broken moan right before Stiles touches his dick and Derek comes, fingers shredding the sheets, Stiles’ name falling off his lips. 

Stiles comes not long after that, and falls against Derek’s chest. 

+

“Don’t go,” Stiles murmurs against Derek’s chest. Derek is running his fingers through Stiles’ hair. He stops. Stiles sits up and folds his legs underneath him, before blinking down at Derek. It’s probably a serious conversation, Derek guesses, so he sits up too. “I don’t want you to go,” Stiles repeats. 

“I –” 

“I know it’s only been a week. And I’ll still pay you for this week, of course I will. But I don’t want just this week, Derek. There’s something about you – about us. I want… I want forever. Or at least to try forever.” 

Derek doesn’t say anything, and Stiles offers him a tight smile. “Please?” he asks in a small voice. 

And what can Derek say to that? 

+

Stiles grips his hand. “It’s going to be okay.” 

The bell above the coffee shop entrance chimes and Derek glances up. She walks in, eyes searching for Derek’s, and when they meet, she nods stiffly. “Derek,” Laura says when she walks up. Derek nods at her. 

“Laura. This is Stiles – he’s my – he’s my boyfriend.” 

Even now, after all these months, the words still feel foreign on his tongue, like Derek doesn’t deserve to say them. But Stiles always manages to tell when he’s doubting himself, and will pull him out of it, convince Derek of Stiles’ love for him, prove to him just how much he loves him and wants to stay with him. Stiles says he’s punished himself far longer than he should’ve, but sometimes Derek catches himself wondering just how long a person really deserves to be punished when they’re at fault for their family’s murder. 

“Stiles Stilinski?” Laura asks, brow arched. Stiles nods and sticks a hand out to shake. Laura ‘hmm’s’ under her breath, and then shakes his hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” she says. “Are you the reason Derek suddenly wants to talk about things?” 

Stiles offers a grin. “The one and only,” he says, and then elbows Derek in the side.

Derek says, “I wasn’t working as a janitor,” and slowly starts to tell the whole story. 

And Laura – Laura listens. 

+

Derek’s in full wolf form, chasing Stiles across their property in Connecticut, listening to Stiles’ shrieks of laughter and enjoying the feeling of overwhelming happiness spreading through him as he inches closer to Stiles. The lights of their house glow warmly when Derek turns back around to catch one last glimpse of it before they disappear into the woods. 

He speeds up, manages to plant his paws against Stiles’ back, and snorts with joy. 

“Not – again,” Stiles pants, falling to the grass, laughing. Derek pokes him in the side with his muzzle, and Stiles doesn’t stop laughing, tangles his fingers in Derek’s fur, starts petting him. “You are going to have me in shape in no time,” Stiles tells him. Derek snorts through his nose and Stiles rolls his eyes. “Don’t start. Without you I’d never have to run this much. Buying a house in the middle of nowhere was your best and worst idea, wolfboy.” 

Derek leans up and licks a long, wet strip up the side of Stiles’ face.

“Yeah,” Stiles laughs, using Derek to help himself stand up straighter. “Love you too.” 

Derek’s never felt so new and free.

**Author's Note:**

> Cookies for whoever figures out the 80s sitcom mentioned and therefore the reason that Stiles & Derek moved where they did. :-)
> 
> If you're interested you can find me on tumblr @ dylanobilinski.


End file.
